“Men say all kinds of shit when they’re coming. Doesn’t make it a proposal.” My reflection looked unconvinced, yet memories from last night kept ambushing me at random moments.
Back in the bedroom, I stood before the small closet where I’d hung the pitiful remains of my professional wardrobe. What remained was a hodgepodge of wrinkled blouses and skirts that had seen better days.
I settled on a deep purple wrap dress, which hugged my curves in ways that always boosted my confidence. Not that I was dressing for Langston. Absolutely not. This was about feeling good for myself, about facing the day with armor intact after letting my guard down last night.
As I struggled with the zipper on my ankle boots, Langston’s words echoed in my head again.“Stay with me.”Not just until we find the stalker. Not just until I get back on my feet. His voice, rough with emotion, caused me to shiver.
I was about to apply mascara when my phone pinged with a text. It was Langston.Coffee ready when you get here.
Simple. Professional. It was as if he didn’t have his mouth between my thighs six hours ago, as if I didn’t leave nail marks down his back, probably still visible this morning. Yet this inoffensive message sent butterflies flying in my stomach.
My hands shook slightly as I finished applying mascara, and my mind drifted to the origami crane I found on my windshield. Someone was watching me, someone who knew things about me they shouldn’t.
Was it someone at the office? Someone from my past? Someone who’d been here in town the whole time I was running around South America, waiting for me to return?
After I’d finally gotten my makeup looking presentable. I checked my phone one more time, still no suspicious messages, and dropped it into my purse along with my keys, wallet, and the small can of pepper spray Langston insisted I carry.
At the bedroom door, I paused for one final mirror check. The woman staring back at me looked put together, professional, and ready to face the day. Only I saw the tension around my eyes, the slight tightness in my smile. Only I knew she was balanced precariously between fear and desire, between running from danger and running straight toward the one man who’s always been both a safe harbor and dangerous waters.
As I descended the attic stairs, Langston’s touch lingered on my skin. Last night, there was a vital shift between us, and no amount of morning mantras could put the genie back in its bottle.
Langston’s doorwas open when I arrived at the office. Langston was at his computer, suit jacket draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up to expose forearms I now knew were stronger than they looked. My body reacted instantly, a flush of heat spreading from my neck downward as memories from last night flashed through my mind.Not the time, Aven.Focus on the actualthreat, not the threat to your emotional well-being sitting ten feet away.
“Morning. Sleep okay?” Langston asked, looking up as I entered our shared office space. His eyes did a quick scan of my body, subtle but thorough, before returning to my face. The double meaning wasn’t lost on me.
“Fine. Ready to dive back into the Morales research?” I replied, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to strained.
He nodded. “Martinez sent over some new files. They’re in your email.”
“Great. Thanks.” I slipped into my chair. I couldn’t help but think how we were colleagues who’d seen each other naked, but still.
I pulled up my email, determined to lose myself in work rather than dwelling on the way Langston’s hands felt against my skin. Martinez has sent a massive file dump, including immigration records, social media screenshots, and even credit card transactions he’d somehow obtained through what I suspected were not entirely legal channels. Leo’s digital footprint lay bare, ready for dissection.
For the next hour, I was in full research mode. As a writer, it was what helped me land my first magazine internship before I traded stable employment for the promise of adventure and a book deal that never materialized.
I started with Leo’s social media, clicking through Facepage posts which tracked his movements across South America. The timeline matched what I remember: Lima in February, Cusco in March, the Bolivian border crossing in April. His captions were the same mix of tourist clichés and pseudo-philosophical quotes that initially drew me to him, now reading as hollow and performative through the lens of hindsight.
Next, I dove into the immigration records Martinez somehow procured. Leo Morales was born in Peru to a French father and a Japanese mother. The diplomatic connections explain how he moved so freely between countries; his father’s former position with the French embassy opened doors that would remain closed to normal tourists. It also explained why local police were reluctant to take my complaints seriously. Who wanted to tangle with diplomatic immunity, even the residual kind?
I tracked his border crossings, noting they followed my own movements with eerie precision until suddenly. In July, I fled to Miami. Leo’s trail showed him returning to Lima. His Facebook confirmed it. He posted photos of familiar streets and the same restaurant where we first had dinner. His captions now focused on “returning to roots” and “finding new beginnings.”
Then I saw it, a post from June eighteenth, geotagged at the same café in Lima. Leo’s arm was draped around a petite woman with a cascade of dark hair, her smile wide as she leaned into him. The caption read:Sometimes the universe sends you exactly what you need exactly when you need it. #blessed #newchapter #lima.
“Oh shit,” I whispered, clicking to the next photo, then the next. Leo and the woman at Machu Picchu. Leo and the woman on a beach. Leo and the woman appeared to be at a family gathering with his arm possessively around her shoulders.
I checked the dates, rechecking them against my own timeline, against the origami crane on my windshield, and in my desk drawer. There was no way, absolutely no way, Leo could be in Peru with his new girlfriend and simultaneously leaving tokens for me in this office. The math wasn’t mathing. The geography didn’t work. Which meant …
“It’s not him. It’s not Leo,” I whispered, realization hitting me with physical force. My lungs constricted. My breath camein short, rapid bursts as the implications cascaded through my mind.
I stood abruptly, suddenly unable to sit still. Pacing our shared office space, I pressed my fingers against my temples, trying to contain the thoughts threatening to explode in my mind.
Not Leo. Someone else. Someone local. Someone who knew intimate details about my time in South America, things I hadn’t shared with anyone except?—
“No.” I rejected the thought before it fully formed. Langston wouldn’t. Not after everything. Not after last night.
Yet if not him, then who? Who else knew these things about me? Who could’ve possibly had access to those specific details Leo used?
My breathing accelerated further, the edges of my vision beginning to blur as panic took hold. My hands shook so badly I had to press them against my sides, fingernails digging into my palms in an attempt to ground myself in physical sensation rather than spiraling fear.
